


the boughs carry heartbeats

by harmony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, but you know this is a fix-it so i intend to toss that death straight out the window, does not take anything from the dawn of the future novel into account, mentions of (temporary) canonical character death, this is an EXTENDED and fleshed-out version of the short 2k piece in the aeternum ignoct zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 16:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20138770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harmony/pseuds/harmony
Summary: (Post-canon fix-it) After the dawn comes, Ignis acquires an injury on his chest that he can’t explain; it’s accompanied by unexpected appearances from Noctis that shouldn’t be possible.As far as Ignis can tell, it may very well be a second chance.





	the boughs carry heartbeats

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extended version of the fic that I submitted to the [Aeternum ignoct zine](https://twitter.com/ignoctzine) (the zine had a 2k word limit per piece, but I wanted to flesh out the story that I submitted, so you guys get an extra 8.5k on top of that!). It was such an honor to be able to contribute to the zine, and it’s an awesome privilege to now be able to share my work with everyone here!
> 
> Thank you also to JC for drawing the lovely art piece in collaboration with this fic! I also owe a great thanks to Strifescloud and Rach for helping me look over this back when it was first finished btw (although I’ve actually added some mature content since then - the explicit rating is for a scene that contains some, well, _self-love_ on Ignis’ part).
> 
> This is my first ever ignoct fic, and I hope I did these boys justice :) Please enjoy!

He thinks he _sees_ Noctis crumble into shards of light, like a rain of fire-flowers. An unexpected sight, considering his eyes haven’t seen anything for ten years.

Something collides into his chest – a sharp, heavy jab and taut pressure that knocks the breath straight out of his lungs, and strangely enough, it has nothing to do with the crippling grief that’s already swallowing him whole.

He’d thought little of the dull throb building beneath his skin, but then—

‘… Uh, Iggy? What’s that?’

Ignis pauses in his tracks, soaked towel slowly pulling away from wisps of dampened hair. Residual steam from the bathroom behind him rolls humidly against his spine. He cocks his chin in questioning.

‘You’ve got, like—’ Prompto shifts on his feet, a hesitant shuffle against coarse carpeting. ‘—this pretty big _bruise_. Did you hurt yourself?’

‘Not that I recall? Though I may be mistaken,’ says Ignis evenly, puzzled. ‘Where?’

There’s an uncertain brush of fingers at Ignis’ bare chest, a little to the left of his breastbone. Right where that dim ache’s been buried for the past few days, beyond muscle and sinew, waxing and waning in faint pulses. Right where Ignis knows his own heart’s beating.

Prompto clears his throat, and draws his hand away.

It’s almost a cosmic joke – the universe’s punchline. Neither of them laugh.

Noctis comes to him at night, subtle yet summer-bright against the black nothingness of his long-gone vision.

Only a pale shape with a blurred outline, but Ignis knows it’s him; the muted warmth Noctis carries caresses the fringes of Ignis’ mind, and settles over Ignis’ shoulders in a way that’s all too familiar. Like falling asleep together in a too-vast bed as little boys. Like easy smiles shared across the licking flames of a campfire.

Smothered words resonate against the shells of Ignis’ ears, too muffled for him to really understand. Solace slowly swells in the base of Ignis’ gut, anyway.

He wakes up breathless, unsure if it’d all just been a dream, because it sure as hell hadn’t felt like one.

If anything, he’s relieved that the funeral last week had taken place with prompt immediacy. He’d been the one to arrange everything, of course; now that the dawn’s come, the world has to keep turning, and his feet can only persist with forward strides.

He may be just a touch regretful of his decision to acquire the shared bachelor pad with Prompto in the midst of it all, though.

Because clearly, judging by the way Prompto’s cautiously started hovering in his orbit with teeth clicking in concern, the mysterious mounting pressure in his chest isn’t such a private matter anymore.

They’d all asked him, with a genuine measure of worry, if he was alright.

A peculiar question that he has no straight answer for, because to a degree, he isn’t alright – and to a degree, he _is_.

Nothing can supplant steady decades of firm friendship; nothing can outweigh that many layers of grief and mourning. But somehow, it isn’t as bone-crushingly difficult as he’d thought it’d be to set aside enough room in his waking hours to keep muscling through, to continue to move, to try to plant shaky soles firm upon whatever stepping stone of gradual recovery his feet can find; and taking joint charge of the newfound rebuilding efforts now will always feel as right to him as the mantle and uniform of the Crownsguard essentially has from the very start.

Hardly an easy feat, by any means, but as far as he’s concerned, having Prompto and Gladiolus at his side can really only make everything easier.

Not much disquiet mars his sleep, at least, and the nights roll by with the unexplained oddity of Noctis’ pulse weaving into the rhythms of his own heartbeat, of Noctis’ even inhales and exhales undulating like gentle waves alongside his own breaths.

‘Ignis.’

More than a month’s trickled past by the time Ignis actually _hears_ him. A soft murmured tenor fleshed with a history of heavy years, both casual and full of splendor, all at once.

‘… Noct?’ he scrapes out, throat constricting around the syllable.

A soothing flicker of heat – something that feels like an answering half-smile. And a flutter of purposeful fingertips, skimming briefly over that stretch of skin where his heart tissue’s clenching raw and tender underneath.

It still doesn’t feel anything like a dream, but Ignis bites down on that thought when he slips awake.

An audible swallow, and a tense lick of lips. ‘It looks – pretty bad, Iggy.’

Ignis’ backbone pulls taut against the rigid chair. Stiffened toes curl over knots of grainy carpet.

‘It’s not just bruising anymore. There’s like … lines coming out of it. They’re shaped like roots.’ Prompto lets out a quivering, uneasy breath. ‘It’s gotten bigger, too. Does it hurt?’

‘A little, yes,’ Ignis says in earnest, and he makes to button up his shirt anew. ‘But it shouldn’t be anything that some standard medicine or ointment can’t fix.’

Prompto’s tentative backward step creaks with the unmistakable note of something like dread. Ignis’ hand reflexively comes up to claw at the deep-set soreness of his chest; he can almost envision those roots unfolding beneath his palm.

‘… Iggy, what caused this, exactly?’

A resonance of Noctis’ name lingers in the curves of Ignis’ mouth, but he says nothing.

Lean fingers ghost over Ignis’ jaw. They’re battle-hardened and gentle, tucking a wayward slip of hair back behind his ear.

The contact is novel; craved for. But simultaneously nostalgic, and familiar.

‘Break’s over, Ignis.’ A sunny smile glimmers in Noctis’ voice. ‘Come on. You have a city to rebuild.’

Ignis jolts, springing to his feet. He hadn’t even really been asleep, this time. It’d only been a short respite from the day’s reconstruction efforts, wherein he’d perched himself on a half-collapsed bench and allowed his mind to drift toward a light doze – and Noctis’ words and touch just now had broken through clear as morning.

The dim blood-beats that he knows aren’t his own; the quiet breaths that have been rising and falling in time with his; and now, the utterances addressing him with sharp certainty—

These are no dreams. He doesn’t fully understand it, but _somehow_, Noctis seems to be here.

‘Of course,’ he answers, heart thundering against his ribs. And he plunges himself back into work, just as he’s been encouraged to do.

‘… Please tell me you’ll see some medical expert for the thing on your chest.’ Even over the phone, Gladiolus’ stubborn insistence is solid and unmistakable. ‘Prom wouldn’t shut up about it. He says it looks terrifying.’

Ignis hums assuagingly in response.

But he knows there’s something of Noctis in that ache, even if he hasn’t entirely worked out _what _as of yet.

Medicinal restoratives and ointments have done nothing, and nevertheless, he doesn’t imagine he’ll go see anyone about this now.

He’s just pulled himself out of bed in the early morning darkness and padded over to the kitchenette – still sleep-soft and languid, but certainly awake – when Noctis emerges again. And Ignis can tell, somehow, what with the sudden flicker of life inside his chest and the air mellowing around him; a delicate, fluid sensation as if the room’s been draped in sheer chiffon.

‘I was amazed,’ says Noctis coolly, ‘when I got back after those ten long years and saw what you’d made of yourself. Cooking, running, even _fighting_, without your eyesight. Not everyone could walk a road that hard.’

‘Truthfully, I didn’t have much of a choice but to persevere,’ Ignis answers; two eggs are cracked into a sizzling pan. ‘And despite all my talk of growing accustomed to the darkness, I wish I’d been able to look upon you just one more time.’

‘You believed in me anyway.’ A faint, warm pressure, like a reassuring hand, settles on Ignis’ lower back. ‘Even without seeing me.’

Ignis’ heart swells, and for a second, he lets himself _want_.

He has to pause some distance down the great stairway, silent in polite inquiry, when he hears Noctis’ admiring whistle of interest.

‘Nice work on the stairs,’ says Noctis, sedate and appreciative. ‘Pretty glad that you seem so at ease with everything right now. Seriously, managing the rebuilding program is definitely right for you, I reckon. I mean … your dedication to everything in general and your hard work always pays off.’

‘I’d hope so,’ Ignis answers with temperate gratitude; a sudden urge to _touch_ rises in him – a graze of fingers against Noctis’ wrist, a brush of slack elbows together, anything at all – but Noctis has no physical form as he is now for Ignis to reach out to, and he has to clamp his teeth to rein in the unexpected impulse. ‘Though credit for this isn’t limited to my endeavors alone. Everybody’s had a hand in helping. And—’ he clears his throat momentarily, then. ‘—I must admit that in the most onerous of times, I stop to think of you.’

Noctis’ next inhale distinctly catches.

Though it isn’t such a novel concept, even if it’s the first time the words have actually left Ignis’ mouth. After all, he’d also spent a decade pulling himself up from cold gravel, from rough earth, and sightlessly fought to regain his footing in every manner by fixing Noctis’ impending return to the forefront of his thoughts – a hopeful flicker of candlelight in the sepulchral darkness. And he’d stood in battle with all the cells of his body alight by centering his focus on Noctis’ dreaded and selfless sacrifice; in the end, he knows that throughout the years, by his own choice, Noctis has slowly come to be his rock. His home. His _only_.

He’ll never want or hope for anything else.

‘… Having said that,’ Noctis starts carefully; it comes out somehow delicate, vulnerable. ‘How exactly do I make you feel?’

And Ignis replies, with no hesitation to speak of: ‘Like trying is worth it.’

It’s only one single slice from a vast, innumerable array of things that Noctis seems to always kindle in him, but for now, the answer is enough.

Time slows, hanging dense and heavy between them. There’s something strangely solemn and heartbreaking rippling in the core of it, and when Noctis seems to have regained his voice at last, his words leave him quavering.

‘Ignis, if you and I – if we’d had more time back before I died, what do you think we—’

Whatever’s meant to come after that seizes suddenly, like it’s wedged and stuck. Even despite that, Ignis’ pulse hammers a quickening rhythm at his sternum, and a muted guilt swells in his gut; for how weighty the half-question sounds, now may not be the most fitting time.

‘… Never mind. I shouldn’t really get into that,’ says Noctis, faint and contrite, like he’s thinking the same. ‘Not with the way things are.’

Ignis gives a meaningful nod, pressing back all wayward cravings in respect of that decision, and continues to skim down the remainder of the stairway with no difficulty at all.

The news of Gladiolus’ intentions to secure a residence that’s much closer to Ignis’ and Prompto’s shared apartment than his current lodgings on the other side of the city is somewhat unexpected, but in all honesty, more than welcome.

‘… Less distance and time to travel for all this work, which means not leaving my girl at home alone for longer than I need to. Which’ll be even more necessary once we actually have kids.’

Ignis parcels off the packaged rations in his hands to the next civilian standing in line, and chews down thoughtfully on the meat of his cheek.

‘That’s something you have all planned out, then?’

‘More or less. She’s kinda been hinting at wanting to start a family, and to be honest, I want that too, now.’ Gladiolus’ affirmation comes out steady; strong; sure. ‘That sort of thing seemed so far away ten years ago, you know? When we left on our road trip. Hell, it seemed so far away even _a few months ago_. Still, we’re not the same people we were way back when. Nothing stays the same, and there’s nothing wrong with that.’

A singular hum cuts across the back of Ignis’ ear, subdued but strained, and while Noctis’ moods and feelings don’t flare in his chest as though they’re his own, he still picks up on the rise and swell of them nonetheless. Raw and unguarded, and as simple to sense as if it’s riding on broadcast radio waves – the very moment Noctis’ breath constricts, the very moment emotion pushes tight against Noctis’ edges.

‘I’m happy for him,’ Noctis murmurs, the words warm but taut, all at once. ‘I wish I could tell him that.’

And Ignis mouths in reassurance: _he knows_.

It seems like curious irony to have been restricted in choice, to have had limitations in freedom. Maybe, if more available decisions had thrived and thrummed at their fingertips in some other universe, Ignis would still be steeped in his willing fight for Noctis to have any shred of happiness at all. For Noctis to be able to love as thoroughly as his bleeding heart can make space for, and to have as stable a future as any of the rest of them.

But Ignis is well aware that there’s no real benefit to daydreaming of an alternate world when he and the others live in the reality of one that’s just surfaced from an age of all-encompassing shadow.

‘… So I think we’ll be able to move as soon as next week, and starting from then, I’ll definitely be able to help out with this every day.’ The queue shuffles and moves in a tide as Gladiolus discernibly hands off the next relief parcel. ‘Though I reckon the rebuilding’s going well enough that we could probably phase out these rations in a couple of months. I actually didn’t expect that people would move in and start getting their businesses running again _this fast_, but hey. Won’t be long before everyone can stand on their own feet like they used to.’

‘I very much agree,’ says Ignis, mild and heartfelt.

‘And it’d be nice to see you and Prom more often. Wouldn’t mind all of us being a dream team in actual close proximity again,’ Gladiolus adds sincerely, and then huffs in serious concern, all of a sudden. ‘How’s the thing on your chest, by the way? Have you got it all sorted?’

‘Come now, Gladiolus, let it go.’ Ignis pulls in a quiet breath through his teeth, genuinely patient. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, I assure you.’

The following week marks an entire three months since the markings had first surfaced on his chest; and out of the blue, Ignis somehow picks up on Noctis’ scent.

Not by his soap or shampoo or cologne – Noctis has no tangible form as he is now, and no real space for material luxuries in that manner of existence – but simply by Noctis himself, just as Ignis has always remembered and known him in the long decades gone by. Ignis knows that smell as well as the rough calluses of his own hand; he can easily recognize that distinct salt and earth making up the fragrance of Noctis’ skin, of Noctis’ hair, of Noctis’ sweat and buried blood-pulses.

He has to wonder, in a moment of awe, if it’s nothing more than a design of his imagination. After all, Noctis’ smell is seemingly only just emerging now after months of having made no appearances, and Ignis is perfectly conscious of the fact that all of Noctis’ faint touches thus far have been phantom in nature. But then Noctis speaks up, and Ignis is keenly aware, all of a sudden, that the aroma is no hallucination.

‘You kept those?’

Ignis blinks, stopped in his tracks. He’s only just slid his wardrobe door half-open to retrieve his coat, and for a second, he has to run through a mental calculation of what Noctis may possibly be noticing now that he mightn’t have previously seen; and then Ignis realizes that this is the first time that Noctis has actually surfaced from thin air while he’s combing through his garments – it’s the first time, evidently, that Noctis has become aware of the disused ensemble neatly tucked away at the wardrobe’s bottom corner. The short-sleeved jacket; the soft t-shirt; the knee-length pants.

‘… I would’ve learned to move on without you,’ Ignis explains evenly, moderate and meaningful. ‘But even so, I still felt reluctant to dispose of them. It may not be a terribly sentimental keepsake, but it’s _something_, all the same.’

Noctis greets that confession with a fleeting pause of silence, serene and unburdened and thankfully free from any cold undercurrent of disapproval.

‘Do the others know?’

‘When I made mention of my decision to save the outfit, Prompto asked for your fingerless glove,’ Ignis tells him. ‘Gladiolus wanted to keep your lace-up boots.’

And he’d gladly, readily granted their requests. Because everyone who loved and cherished Noctis deserved to keep a fragment of him in fond memory, and Ignis has no intention of ever being selfish about such a thing.

Either way, he’s still quietly grateful that his two friends had allowed him to hold onto and treasure the larger part of the ensemble, at least.

‘… Iggy?’ Prompto’s voice abruptly rings out from the doorway, confused and inquisitive. ‘Were you talking to someone?’

‘I was – just finishing up a phone call,’ Ignis spills out in a flash of quick thinking. A rather dreadful lie that he instantly feels guilty for, but being open about Noctis’ presence isn’t something he’s quite ready to do with anyone, right at this moment. ‘With Iris. I believe she may already be at the new apartment. We should get going shortly.’

‘Who would’ve guessed that Gladio had that much stuff to move that he’d actually need any help,’ Prompto muses, his tone halfway to a whine. ‘You’d think that he was made more for that kind of hardcore heavy lifting than we are.’

Noctis huffs out a sliver of warm laughter at that, and Ignis thinks he can almost smell the distant sweetness of Noctis’ breath. ‘Don’t tell Prom this, but I hope he never changes.’

In response, Ignis can’t help but sniff in a fashion that’s close to dim amusement.

He only resolves to ask around one month later, while getting dressed for bed. The subdued throb in his chest is no stranger by now, although the usual, familiar root-shaped lines have since raised themselves like scar tissue across the slate of his skin; the branching paths sit firm beneath Ignis’ touch whenever he trails his fingertips over them.

‘… How are you even around?’

‘Not too sure myself, but I sort of have a theory,’ Noctis hums meaningfully. ‘Cause, y’know, I actually felt myself breaking. Shattering. But there was, like … this thrumming, living thread of magic in the air that was just – _there_, even though the Ring was gone, and I found you at the other end of it. Just you. If I were to make a rough guess, I’d say it might be because I wore the Ring last, and you were its only survivor.’

‘Ah,’ says Ignis with approval. ‘An insightful speculation.’

A magical connection and anchor, then. He still remembers it with striking clarity – the precise moment of Noctis’ death. When Ignis thought he’d _seen_ Noctis disintegrating into shimmering fragments. When Ignis had felt a single shard of that light crashing into his ribs, into his heart.

And now, for whatever reason, roots are there.

It’s a strangely comforting thought.

‘Might I ask,’ Ignis starts, careful and tentative, ‘if you would’ve preferred someone else to appear to, had you the opportunity to choose? Prompto, perhaps?’

‘What are you talking about,’ Noctis answers frankly, without skipping a beat. ‘Prompto is Prompto. You’re you. I don’t feel trapped with you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I feel _fortunate_.’

Ignis swallows. Draws in a lungful of crisp afternoon air. Dips his head in a slow, tight nod.

‘… Speaking of Prompto, I daresay I’ve finally succeeded in putting his worries to rest,’ Ignis murmurs; he knows that Noctis will hear him even amid the clamor of building construction all around them. ‘Pointed out to him that the marks on my chest seemed to resemble a form of magical scarring not unlike the one over my eye – more a flesh wound than any kind of disease. He isn’t really hovering around me anymore, so I believe I may have just quelled his fears, for the most part. Were you there to see?’

‘Yeah! Nice going,’ says Noctis, soft laughter rattling his voice like bells. Ignis finds himself aching blood-deep at the sound.

It’s while Ignis is making his way to the current month’s reconstruction and relief board meeting, wireless buds snugly nestled in his ears and droning away through a budgeting list of relevant figures and finances that he’d recorded himself cataloguing as a reminder, when Noctis nonchalantly chimes in: ‘Even in death, I can’t seem to avoid meetings.’

Ignis immediately sighs at that, long and surrendering, and pauses the audio file.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t underplay your own circumstances.’

‘Hey, I’m not underplaying anything. I can’t exactly change my situation – I’m gonna be here, somehow _existing in you_ or whatever, no matter what – so I may as well make the most of it,’ Noctis protests, but with no real sting behind the sentiment. ‘You could at least give me the opportunity to joke about stuff to entertain myself.’

A momentary lull balloons between them, and Ignis briefly chews down on his cheek.

‘… Do you perchance remember the foreign diplomat with the dark combed-back hair and slicked mustache? Proud and upright fellow, came to visit the Citadel once when you were about fifteen. He brought his daughter with him – she was around your age, wearing a blue dress with tall white boots. An exceptionally beautiful and intelligent young woman.’ Ignis may no longer have his eyesight, but he thinks he remembers that day in great detail, if only due to the peculiar sensation that Noctis’ involvement in the scenario had stirred in the base of his gut. ‘You were both supposed to be in attendance for the meeting that’d been arranged between your fathers, but when the time came, neither of you turned up. Your father had me search for you, and I found that you’d stolen her away into the music room. His Majesty was understandably surprised.’

‘I know I didn’t really explain myself that day, but it’s not what you might think,’ says Noctis quickly, sounding a little on edge. ‘It was just – such a stressful week at that point, and she and I were only meant to observe the meeting anyway, so she was totally on board with skipping out and I didn’t think it’d matter if I didn’t actually go, for once. I wasn’t up to any funny business with her. Like, spending all day every day in the Citadel just got pretty lonely sometimes, you know? Especially with how busy we all were. And when she came … I don’t know. Guess I looked at her and I saw a new friend.’

Ignis knows precisely how lonely it could get. How seclusion had yawned in the vast hallways and collected in the corners with the pooling shadows. How duty had bound them all to constant toil, and to expectations that rose beyond the summits of the tallest towers. The days had always stretched long, almost timeless; there’d been too many an instance of work draining his veins hollow, and weighing his limbs down.

At least attending to Noctis himself hadn’t felt like tiresome work, though. In the end, they’d always been childhood friends first and foremost: a comforting and safe connection that’d transcended the loose, cold link between just some prince and his advisor. Even when Noctis had greeted him on that first day that they’d met, armed with a tender smile full of milk teeth and tiny fingers that’d offered a surprisingly steady handshake, it’d been there – the kind of unremitting warmth that’d soothed Ignis’ coiling nerves from one day to the next, every passing day, during the days replete with leisure, during the days when his job got tough.

All in all, being around Noctis had always felt consoling and right.

‘… You were acting a little odd after you found us, I remember,’ Noctis continues on, with a clear hint of wariness. ‘You weren’t, you know. Uncomfortable, or whatever, about her taking up my attention … right?’

‘No, not at all. Nothing like that.’ And that’s the firm truth; Ignis would never have harbored that kind of needless jealousy – he’s not _entitled_ to Noctis, and whether or not partnership and marriage may come as duty to a prince, Noctis deserves freedom as much as anyone and for however long he can get it, particularly when royalty comes with so little of it. ‘But I suppose … given that I didn’t fully understand the situation back then, perhaps I may have felt the tiniest bit lost.’

Silence imbues his surroundings, and Ignis can almost read Noctis’ scrutiny in it.

The pause is thick and deafening, though not out of place.

When Noctis does ultimately speak up, it’s slow and careful, with a sudden added weight to every syllable. ‘I was kinda worried about opening up the subject, that time when I was complimenting your work on the stairs. But I think you deserve to know that you’ll always – _have_ me. God, I’m not that great with words, am I.’ There’s a stir under the surface of Ignis’ skin that’s not his own zeal, then; a tense sensation that speaks volumes of Noctis’ likely restlessness. ‘Look, I’m saying that even if I’d ended up getting married out of duty … you’d still have everything else of me. As in, every part that matters, you know? So, uh. What I told you back at that last night at camp, when I said that I’d always have you in my heart – I did mean that that particular space that you occupy is, like, one hundred percent yours. Reserved for you. If that makes any ounce of sense.’

Ignis’ stroll comes to a complete stop.

Heat swirls at his collarbones, smoldering all the way up to the roof of his mouth. The unexpected avowal rings in echoes at his ears, its resonance almost roaring.

‘—Noct,’ he whispers hoarsely, somewhat breathless and off-balance from Noctis’ declaration. ‘I hope you know how that sounds.’

He’s not quite sure what it is – whether it’s both of their interweaving pulses, or the strangely timeless seconds ticking by, that are drumming even louder in the following stretch of quiet.

‘… Yeah,’ Noctis answers eventually. A calm affirmation that comes out modest and steady, although a gentle quiver runs along its undercurrent; unshielded, stripped bare. ‘What I said – that’s always been true. And I may not have a physical body or anything, but spending these last few months with you … in all honesty, I can only say I’m happy, Ignis.’

There’s no mistaking that something’s just shifted between them, right here and now. A vivid spark in their joined blood; a fire-flicker in their connected nerves. A small kindling of light that somehow feels like it could be fierce enough to crack the earth beneath Ignis’ feet.

It’s a lot to take in.

‘… I have to keep my head in this meeting,’ Ignis says reluctantly, slipping back into business mode out of necessity alone. ‘But rest assured that I’m not dismissing this. When the time is right, we’ll talk it over.’

And Noctis replies at once, considerate and understanding: ‘Yeah, of course.’

The promise hangs warmly in their midst.

Ignis walks on, and if there’s more of a spring to his step than there’d been before, Noctis doesn’t comment on it.

‘Well, aren’t you in a good mood today.’

For a brief moment, Ignis is taken by surprise; but he supposes, in hindsight, that he shouldn’t be. He straightens up, tray of pastries clamped between mitt-gloved fingers, and pushes the oven door closed with a sideward bump of his hip.

‘… First time I heard you humming like that – I won’t lie, it gave me a bit of a shock,’ says Prompto with mellow amusement, and light footfalls make their path around the kitchen counter in soft, even treads. ‘But, you know. After everything, I’ve gotta say it’s nice to hear.’

‘I’ve been … talking to someone, recently. Someone with whom I’ve been keeping company, too,’ Ignis murmurs in modest admittance. ‘It’s helped a great deal with the few burdens I still have left on my shoulders. A tremendous comfort, in all respects.’

‘Oh?’ Prompto croons, all cheer and curious interest. ‘Someone you consider special, then?’

It’s rather impressive, the devil-may-care nonchalance with which Prompto’s plucked such an assumption, especially when it’s from nothing more than the purposefully level tone of Ignis’ voice – but in the end, Prompto’s not particularly wrong. Noctis seems to be currently dormant, at least, and not around to hear this talk of himself, which is an enormous relief; Ignis pivots on his heels when he makes to set down the tray, a deliberate turn to tuck his warming face away from Prompto’s field of view.

‘You could say that.’

‘Huh. Well, as one of your longest-standing buddies, I totally expect to be introduced to your mystery person one day, if things get even cozier between you.’ The toothy grin is obvious in Prompto’s voice, bright as wind chimes. A rustling of canvas and a clanking of closely bundled articles follows the proclamation: unmistakable indications of Prompto shouldering a full backpack. ‘Anyway, I’m gonna head out – back late tonight. Will you save one of your tarts for me?’

Ignis smoothly swivels back to him, and gives a succinct nod. ‘Of course.’

‘Best roommate _ever_. Want me to get you anything while I’m out?’

‘No, thank you, Prompto,’ Ignis tells him, and the words feel full and sincere at every edge of his mouth. ‘Right now, I have everything I need.’

A faint flutter stirs in the back of his mind; he knows that Noctis is approaching now, rousing and waking. His lips curve a touch at the corners.

Prompto takes his leave, and Ignis is anything but alone.

Taste and smell bring an even stronger reminiscence in the loss of his eyesight, and when Ignis takes a quiet moment to himself to relish in one of his pastries later that evening, Noctis can only let out a rueful groan.

‘Being a weird disembodied presence sucks,’ he complains outright, with not an ounce of shame. ‘I want one, too. You know I like those.’

‘I’ll be sure to eat your share, if that brings any comfort to you,’ says Ignis in serene consolation.

Noctis pushes out a crisp breath at that, clearly less than impressed. ‘It’s not the same.’

‘I know it isn’t. But it’s the least I can do,’ Ignis responds in earnest, the truth of the statement settling calmly on his shoulders. ‘You may not be able to taste it, but can you picture it, perhaps? As in, the sweet tang of the pastry, or the sharper bite of the berry … I can tell you right now that the flavor’s exactly the same. Just as it’s always been. Just as I’d always made it for you. And I made sure that that’d be the case, as though you’re still physically here to eat it.’

Memory Lane can be a dangerous place to visit in certain circumstances, but at times, the risk is well worth bearing. And at least Noctis seems to understand right away, judging by the manner in which he promptly sobers.

‘… Okay,’ he says evenly; it’s hushed, almost a whisper. ‘I’ll take that.’

‘I hope you know that I would keenly have you in whatever way I can get you, though.’ Ignis rolls the dryness of his lips inward against his tongue; the roots in his chest heave with his exhale. ‘Disembodied or otherwise.’

‘Yeah. I know,’ is all Noctis answers, and Ignis can tell that he means it.

_That particular space that you occupy is, like, one hundred percent yours. Reserved for you._

Truth be told, it’s hard for him to stop thinking about it.

A strange cross between something that’s always lain asleep in the tunnels of his veins, and something that’s only just surfaced as relatively new. Clearly, Noctis must’ve had cause for expressing the sentiment. And at this stage, Ignis can barely even help that his own set of reasons for grasping it tight-knuckled is still stirring a spark behind his ribs at the notion, unsaid but very much _there_.

He turns restlessly in his bed, and sinks into it on his side; it’s already evident that sleep won’t come to claim him any time soon.

The underlying heat sparked between them during that particular heart-to-heart has hardly managed to fade; at this stage, Ignis isn’t sure if it ever will. Even now, with Noctis currently having waned himself away in quiet hibernation, a subtle sliver of his vague presence still drifts along the periphery of Ignis’ senses like a curl of smoke. Licks against the most sensitive stretches of Ignis’ skin like a miniscule tongue of flame.

It sets his blood alight little by little, a prelude to a fever. A faint unscratched itch that he's becoming more and more aware of with every pounding heartbeat.

Really, the more attention he pays to it, and the more Noctis’ dusky closeness trickles into the openings of his pores, the hotter Ignis’ gut and clavicles start to burn.

That sensation lingers unrelentingly enough as the minutes tick by that Ignis doesn’t even want to resist; before long, his thumb is hooking into the waistband of his soft sleep-pants, and slowly tugging them down.

It’s been a long, long time. The dawn is a miracle in itself after ten years in the dark, but it hasn’t done much kindness to the manner in which Ignis lives day-to-day – still submerged in necessary work from morning to night, still worn and drained by the time he retires to bed, still finding little opportunity to indulge in much of anything at all. Possibly an explanation for why the fingers snugly wrapping around his cock feel far more exhilarating and electrifying right now than it potentially ever has; for why he’s fully hard in barely any time at all.

Or it may be due to the steady emergence and embrace of that unyielding warmth that feels like solace, _like Noctis_, like home.

His focus tapers to that luxurious relief, and subsequently to the languid but tight drag and slide of his closed grip; the pads of two fingers sweep up to rub across the slit of his cock, catching the forming beadlet of precome in the thin gap between the digits, before pulling back down. In an odd way, Noctis’ dim, inactive half-presence pulses with more resounding clarity through the exquisite friction, magnifying the way his distant weight is somehow inching in, fluttering against all the fine hairs of Ignis’ skin in delicate shivers. It rings as sweet as appreciation, as tender as permission.

The combat-roughened calluses of Noctis’ skin are still somewhat fresh in Ignis’ memory from when they’d shaken hands that final night at camp – and suddenly, imagination flips a switch in his mind’s eye, and the warm palm enveloping him isn’t quite his own anymore. A dagger-sharp breath unwittingly leaves his lungs at that; he bucks his hips into the circle of his fist.

‘_Noct_—’

It’s easier, in many ways, to picture a world where any physical touch from Noctis is still altogether possible.

Noctis’ clear-cut scent swirls into being like candlelight fluttering awake, like he’s tangibly here within reach of Ignis’ tremulous fingers, like he’s watching with intent; raw thrill surges up Ignis’ spine when he breathes it all in and he flips around onto his back, throwing enough of his blanket aside in the process that the quickening strokes of his hand and the rolling of his hips surfaces even more untamed. It’s hardly been long at all and he knows he’s already close, firm tension coiling taut in his belly and his rigid cock furnace-hot – he can only vaguely come to the conclusion, in his indulgent haze, that Noctis and the immeasurable shift between the two of them must have everything to do with why every bit of this burns so much more intensely than he’s ever felt before.

_I can only say I’m happy, Ignis._

Certain things, however unspoken, are becoming harder and harder to deny by the second.

Ignis’ throat seizes around a little noise that’s halfway between gratification and heartache; he’s soon following the building urgency between his hips with progressively sloppier pumps and an unruly twist of the fistful of blanket tangled into the fingers of his other hand, quivering breath snagging against his teeth and whatever’s left of his last visual memory of Noctis’ sunlit smile searing into the backs of his ruined eyes. The swelling heat races to the point of no return, a cresting wave, rising fierce – and just like that, with a shaky moan, he starts to come.

His sweat-slicked skin warms all over, tensed spine arching away from the mattress with the last of his long, slowing thrusts; euphoria gushes alongside the wetness spilling all over his fingers and he rides out that white-hot decadence to the very last drop, toes curling and thighs clenching, dirty and scorching and unashamed.

Full breaths roll across the quiet gloom while the air around him starts to settle, and striking relief smooths itself over the residual dust and everyday monotony that all of his waking hours have tended to carry.

Bones heavy; muscles soft and slack; chest prickling with the dull throb that he’s readily come to accept.

He sleeps better that night than he has in a while.

‘You feel … kinda different right now,’ Noctis tells him in the morning.

A very, very slight edge of flustered shyness creeps along his tone – almost as if he’s vaguely aware of what Ignis had been up to during the night. But surprisingly enough, the words are tinted with an unmistakable note of dim pleasure and approval, too; hearing it, the sudden flare of self-consciousness in Ignis’ stomach doesn’t end up lingering at all.

‘How so?’

‘Like … pretty good. Really comfortable. Relaxed, I guess.’ Noctis’ voice lowers, a little hoarse. ‘I don’t know, you feel kind of amazing. Not to be weird or anything.’

Ignis’ eyebrows lift in irrepressible interest.

That delicate, still-undiscussed _thing_ between the two of them stirs like firelight in their midst, as alive as ever, hanging full and warm and heavy.

And Ignis can always read the unmoving bulk and mass of its presence, like a mild sleeping beast at the periphery of his field of detection; equal parts reassuring and formidable, safe and perilous, stunning and terrifying.

Sitting just _there_, lurking mostly latent – though it’s not so steeped in hibernation now. Not when Noctis is choosing to follow up with a query that catches Ignis somewhat off-guard.

‘… And, since we’re on the topic. Just so I’m clear.’ The words sound stretched thin and quite cautious, an evident degree of guarded hesitancy that’s somewhat unusual for Noctis. ‘I know you said that you’re perfectly happy to, uh, _house_ me, so to speak. And to have me around, basically. But like … in the general scheme of things, I’m not being a burden or whatever, am I?’

Ignis hadn’t really been expecting _that_.

After all, it’s almost an exact mirror reflection of the question he himself had asked a while back, about whether Noctis would’ve preferred to be chained to Prompto or anybody else; and Noctis’ firm, direct answer had convinced him, at the time, that such confidence must surely run in both directions. A hasty assumption, he realizes now – at the end of the day, Noctis is still very much steeped in human feelings and uncertainties, as human as a human can get beneath his regal raiment and beyond his royal blood.

‘Honestly, that’s—’ Ignis exhales in surrender. His spine unrolls ruler-straight; his jaw sets hard in firm conviction. ‘Noct, you’ve been a right pain in my rear for more or less my _entire life_.’

‘Gee, thanks!’ Noctis exclaims, clearly affronted.

‘—Can you even count how many vegetables you’ve left uneaten throughout the years, despite my constant insistence on their necessity? Shameful. Unforgivable,’ Ignis points out dryly, pointedly far from any exercise in delicate restraint, but still good-spirited nonetheless. ‘In all seriousness, though, I’d not have you think so lowly of yourself. You’re more than your frustrating quirks, in much the same way that you’re more than the crown that you wore.’

‘I know that. I just—’ The tension in Noctis’ subsequent sigh is more than apparent. ‘I meant like, on the whole. As in, you might be stuck with me like this forever, you know? I can’t go anywhere. If you wake up one day and decide that I’m being a nuisance, or that you’re tired of me for whatever reason … I wouldn’t be sure what to do.’

Clearly, it has nothing to do with the physical technicalities of the situation. Ignis knows that well enough.

And even for a hypothetical scenario, he can hear a vague suggestion of looming distress and uncertainty creeping along the fringes of the words.

At any rate, Noctis has always had so much of his own heart to give, caring and _human_ and as vulnerable in such matters as literally anyone else would be.

‘… Noct,’ Ignis says carefully, setting his plated breakfast toast and butter knife aside. ‘Would you like to come upstairs with me?’

‘Sure,’ Noctis answers right away, with equal parts sweet trust and vague confusion.

Ignis nudges the dining chair back and pulls himself to his feet, and with that, they make their way out of the apartment. It’s funny, for Ignis to think of them as _they_ in this situation, given that Noctis can only follow wherever he goes and has no tangible shape to speak of; but more than five months have passed since their unusual merging, and it’d hardly be a stretch now for Ignis to recognize Noctis’ prominent presence within his own ribcage for what it is – a real, grounding anchor, both an individual being and a steadfast portion of Ignis’ being all at the same time. Stepping together with Ignis’ steps, breathing together alongside Ignis’ breaths, heartbeats pulsing together in a harmony of rhythms.

Noctis stirs in him, unmistakably existent and firm, gentle and comfortable, warm and _here_, the entire way up to the building rooftop.

Early morning air swirls a particularly wintry chill against Ignis’ collarbones; along with the faint trickles of tinted light seeping into the edges of Ignis’ ruined vision, it’s a sure sign that sunrise is coming – barely there but just enough to be perceptible. Cold and beautiful and a surprisingly intimate space that’s all their own: nothing but Ignis and Noctis, and the dawn sky, and everything the new world has to offer.

‘… You can see it, right?’

Despite the earlier puzzlement, it’s telling that Noctis now doesn’t even have to ask why they’re here.

‘I can,’ Ignis confirms.

He’s reminded, suddenly, of that first dawn that they’d had in ten years; as simultaneously subtle and striking as Noctis’ sacrifice itself, which had been secluded and solitary, yet grand and noble all the same.

_You’re more than the crown that you wore_, Ignis had said. A comparison that he knows he doesn’t actually need to make because of the place that Noctis takes up in his heart either way, with or without the crown – and he thinks that, maybe, everything’s going to be just fine even if they’ll likely long remain on separate sides of the curtain between the living and the dead, and even if they can only communicate the way they’ve already been doing: as if these moments are heartfelt letters exchanged between two wanderers who may never really be able to meet in the same space.

Somehow, he’s sure that they’re going to be alright.

‘You’re not a burden to me,’ he murmurs over that unremitting, flowering throb in his chest. ‘And I’ll never grow tired of you. Not for any reason. If we’re fated to always stay like this, and you’re as content about it as I am, then so be it.’

As honest as his bones are deep-set, and to the point. Ignis has never been one to mince words.

Even when Noctis only has a phantom pulse and not a physical one, Ignis picks up on its gradually quickening tempo; his own hastens in parallel. It’s almost a challenge to remember how it used to be before he could actually _feel_ Noctis in him, rooted and tangled through his veins, sunken and saturated into his blood.

In all the ways that count, Noctis is well and truly alive beneath his skin.

‘… Completely fine with me,’ says Noctis coolly, with perhaps some level of effort funneled into sounding smooth and casual even though he’s clearly awed, and hearing it, Ignis can’t help the affectionate warmth and amusement that immediately surges low in his gut. ‘Is it okay that your toast is getting cold downstairs, by the way?’

Ignis’ mouth gives way, bending upward just a touch.

‘More than.’

They stay until the sun burns high and bright, and not one second of that shared time feels like a waste.

Gladiolus is still in the process of scarfing down Ignis’ slow-cooked ribs with relish when Iris comes knocking, and Ignis thinks it’s almost a marvel how the presence of two additional people in the apartment can immediately coax such a rise in the flurry of activity between its walls; there’s more life stirring within the mostly stagnant space now than there’s ever been – a reminiscence of long-gone moments in a multitude of places away from here, in a time left distant behind all their backs.

‘Evening, Ignis!’ Iris greets with vibrant warmth. ‘Hey, Gladdy – I see you’re here taking up Ignis’ offer of free dinner, too. Where’s Prompto?’

‘Off getting us more drinks,’ Gladiolus grunts shamelessly around a mouthful of meat. ‘We’ve already run out.’

Ignis tuts in pointed disapproval, and nudges Iris’ elbow lightly with his fingers to usher her over to the table. ‘That may or may not be because you’re a merciless behemoth when it comes to any and all consumables, Gladio. Iris, come sit and eat, I’ve made just about enough for an army.’

‘Yum. It’d be my _absolute_ pleasure,’ Iris says without any shy reserve, and promptly settles into one of the seats. ‘So what was it that you wanted to ask me?’

It’s easier to smother the slight hint of restlessness at his nerve endings when he’s funneling it into keeping his hands busy, even though he’s aware of what kind of reaction is about to come anyway; Ignis makes a point of doling out salad servings to all plates set on the table, and steels himself.

‘I was wondering if you’d be willing to drive me to Galdin Quay,’ he says outright. ‘I’ve asked Talcott, but his hands are regrettably full this month, so he suggested that I ask you. I’d very much like to step away from work for a day or two. Perhaps go fishing again.’

And there it is – the momentary silence that he’s been vaguely dreading since Iris had arrived at his doorstep.

Not that Ignis can really blame anyone for that; _he’s_ the one who’s been keeping Noctis’ incorporeal existence a closely guarded secret, in any case. At the end of the day, he’s the only one who knows the whole story, and the only one who understands his own reasons for wanting to go.

And all in all, his heart isn’t as cracked and sore these days as it’d been during the long decade of darkness, when Noctis had been away and gone – and while that muted craving to connect with Noctis in some substantial way hasn’t changed, the circumstances surrounding Noctis’ presence most certainly _have_.

‘Yeah, no sweat.’ Iris’ eventual answer comes out steady, though the way she audibly squirms in her seat is altogether telltale. ‘It’s been six months, hasn’t it? Everything’s okay with you, right?’

It’s discernibly sincere, and genuine in its concern; a question that Ignis hasn’t been asked in quite a while, which maybe says a lot – he’s been doing significantly better as of late, compared to most of the ten and a half years that’d come before.

He rather likes the way warm contentment fits into every nook and cranny beneath his skin now: a welcome contrast from when the loss of his eyesight a long while back had turned every kind sentiment intended for him into a bitter sting and piercing bite.

Iris clears her throat, evidently on edge. ‘Ah – sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to, like, disrespect your feelings in any way by asking.’

_Not in the slightest_, Ignis means to say, realizing that he must’ve stood there in silence for a little too long without saying anything. But what unwittingly exits his mouth is: ‘My feelings?’

‘You _know_ what she actually means,’ Gladiolus cuts in firmly, like there’s no room for argument.

Beyond a subtle and short-lived spluttering outburst from Iris that speaks volumes of protest in relation to Gladiolus’ bluntness, they’re left with another sliver of silence.

Luckily, Noctis’ intermittent dormancy seems to have come with good timing yet again; as it is, there’s already enough smoldering heat creeping over the ridge of Ignis’ jaw.

Maybe he’s fortunate in many respects, to have friends who seem so acceptingly casual about the matter – particularly when he remembers quite vividly that Iris had once openly harbored unabashed affections for Noctis, too, regardless of how fleeting it may have been.

Either way, Ignis spills out a miniscule slip of breath, quiet and even-tempered. In any given situation, he’d say he’s usually rather adept at not wearing his heart too boldly on his sleeve; perhaps it’s not overly surprising that there’d always be a glaring exception where Noctis is concerned.

‘… Not a disrespect in the least. Yes, everything’s good,’ he says in acknowledgment, level and mild. And for now, that’s that.

Only when dinner is done, with Prompto and Iris tucked away together in the kitchenette to clean the dishes and Ignis perched serenely on the couch with a modest serving of crisp wine, does Gladiolus speak up again – sinking himself down next to Ignis and clinking the neck of his beer bottle brightly against the rim of Ignis’ glass, murmuring in casual declaration: ‘To walking tall. And never stopping.’

‘Cheers to that,’ Ignis agrees, and pulls in a sip of his drink.

‘I’d kinda like to imagine he’s with us sometimes,’ Gladiolus hums in offhand thought, earnest and mellow. ‘Watching all the nonsense we get up to and seeing the fun in it – and, you know, finding some peace in it, or something. Being happy for us, even if he’s not really here. Being _happy_, period.’

_But he_ is_ around,_ Ignis doesn’t say, _and as content as he can be_. It’s magic and miracle enough, how Noctis is clinging to the world the way he is; Ignis briefly has to wonder if Noctis would be gone if he himself were to depart from the world, but that’s not a consideration that he really has to shoulder any day soon – not when he’s made the unspoken choice to keep his own fires burning, to lift his chin high, to stride through each year as they come. To simply live.

And he has Noctis to thank for that.

‘… I know how much he meant to you,’ Gladiolus adds, his tone imbued with gentle and cautious respect. ‘How much he _still_ means to you.’

Ignis’ next exhale leaves him uneven, almost quavering. ‘He means a lot to us all.’

‘But it’s not really the exact same for you, huh.’ It’s grounded and rock-solid, and clearly not a question. ‘It’s a little more.’

There’s some strange feeling of liberation in hearing it said outright, in getting straight to the delicate truth of the matter, in having the words laid out with crystal clarity and no ambiguity to be seen. For all that Noctis is somehow thriving inside him in a literal sense right now, Ignis knows full well that the ache steadily scorching in his chest isn’t from the root-shaped lesions alone.

A sudden yearning to reach out and take Noctis’ hand into his own swells in him like a rising tide; he has to settle for just picturing the coarse texture and living heat of Noctis’ skin instead. After all, it’s better than any false hope he can place in the world that Noctis can truly return in the fullest sense.

‘… You could say that, yes.’

Saying it aloud himself feels liberating, too.

Because, really, longing and devotion have always resided in him; kindling beneath his ribs, and soaked into the marrow of his bones.

‘… I hope I’m allowed to say that I miss you,’ Ignis suddenly says a few days later, unbidden, while on the road to Galdin Quay. The words give out like cracking glass.

Illusory knuckles sweep against his, grazing roughened calluses together. ‘I’m right here.’

A quiet, cutting inhale. ‘I’m glad.’

The perfume of the sea has always been cleaved to the luminous memory of Noctis’ carefree fishing adventures, his simple cheer, his sparkling laughter; a wealth of recollections that Ignis isn’t bound to so easily forget.

He'd never been afforded the privilege to look at Noctis with his own eyes when he’d emerged from the Crystal. In general, he'll never be able to look at Noctis with his own eyes again, henceforth. But even without sight, it’s never been difficult to pick up on the way Noctis brings a consoling reminiscence to everything around them, as if he’s still alive in every inch of it – in the surrounding tangy fragrance; the churning of the waves; the whistling of the wind.

Despite everything, at least Ignis still has that.

‘It’s been so long, smelling saltwater’s almost like coming home,’ Noctis murmurs, unexpectedly solemn. ‘I’ve really missed it.’

Ignis’ fingers curl more tightly around his fishing rod – the same one that’s helped bridge the vast, yawning gap between the two of them, all those dark years.

‘I’d give you all of this if I could.’

‘You’re already doing that now, Ignis.’ Noctis’ voice abruptly tips askew, strained and tremulous. ‘You’ve given me more or less your entire _life, _even beyond duty. For heaven’s sake, you’ve been giving and giving all this time without any motive other than straight-up _wanting_ to, and I just wish I’d had time to give you more back. I wish I’d had more time with you at all. I wish I’d had time to live out my life normally alongside you, and maybe even get the chance—’

He stops himself there, and the roots nestled in Ignis’ chest sting like nothing else.

Ten and a half years ago, he’d sat at Noctis’ bedside and proposed that they bring their journey to a close. Ten and a half years ago, Noctis had chosen to keep shouldering the mantle of his calling and vehemently refused Ignis’ recommendation. And truth be told, Ignis hasn’t offered a single suggestion since then that’s even come close to entertaining or indulging any of his own yearnings.

Ten and a half years is a terribly long stretch of time.

‘… As do I.’ A hot spring of desperate urgency bubbles up within the sentiment; in the end, Ignis is still flawed and imperfect, as selfish in his secret desires as any other man, and maybe there’s no wrong in that. ‘If I were permitted anything whatsoever, I’d ask to have you well and truly back.’

Dead silence meets that admission.

It's out of line, maybe, but it comes steadfast and without shame. The kind of fervor that perhaps has always been buried in him from the very beginning, from the first time Noctis had gazed up at him with youthful wonder and interest – pale eyes large and damp-lit and bright, his tiny and welcoming hand extended, his pearly and trusting smile leisurely cracking through Ignis' defenses.

For whatever it's worth, Ignis has always loved him. _Will_ always love him.

But he barely has time to dwell on that; because out of the blue, from one second to the next, the subtle, tender air that usually accompanies Noctis’ phantom presence abruptly fades and flickers out.

Almost like an extinguished wisp of candlelight – or maybe the entire candle itself has vanished. Ignis can’t tell.

‘… Noct?’

He waits, sinking claws into his own rational patience to keep it grounded. His rising apprehension may just be a little stronger, though; mounting tension clenches itself into circled fists.

No answer comes.

Strangely, an unexpected permanence marks Noctis’ departure this time that Ignis can sense all the way to the tips of his toes. An odd finality to the way the space encased by his ribs hollows out, as if something that he’s grown used to in there has just vacated for good.

Ignis’ stomach drops in near-terror. There’s no mistaking that Noctis is gone.

In a cold, haunting moment of dread, he wonders if he’s just lost Noctis again, for the second time in his life.

Then, all of a sudden, explosive fire ruptures from Ignis’ chest and nearly splits it apart.

Searing pain bursts from his heart muscle like a spray of petals, dispersing in white-hot slivers, and the scattered fragments of light collide into one single piece in a manner that he can somehow clearly perceive without eyesight. Something breaks the seawater’s surface before him with a hard, resounding splash; breathless gasps and groans slice sharply through the briny afternoon air – and Ignis’ pulse nearly stops right then and there.

He knows that voice all too well.

He flings his fishing rod aside, and leaps off the pier into the water.

Because the universe shouldn’t logically allow such a thing, and yet, it makes astonishing sense. For all that’s left of Noctis to have literally _taken root_ inside Ignis’ heart for all of the last six months, for Noctis to have recuperated and flowered there right alongside the slowly healing world, for Noctis to somehow materialize now as if he’s been rebirthed from no more than the cool wind and the sea that he’s always loved without reserve. A rupturing shoot from what was a miniscule grain of seed.

Ignis extends his hands, both quivering and unsteady – and to his utmost shock, firm fingers grasp them. Solid, tangible, _real_. Alive.

He can barely absorb what’s just happened over the blood-beats drumming up a storm in his ears, but for whatever reason, Noctis is back. Noctis is _here_.

‘—Ignis,’ Noctis rasps out, panting.

The name sounds rough and ragged at the edges, but smudged over with understated relief.

It's more than enough.

That’s all it takes for Ignis to pull him in; to fold long arms around him; to hold him feverishly tight, and crave absolutely nothing else.

The setting sun reaches the fringes of his vision by way of faintly dimming light.

It comes with a certain transience, and with a spectrum of unseen colors that Ignis can only pluck from a fading visual memory. He's not always sure how many shades and hues he remembers correctly, but there's never any burden in anchoring himself to the remainder of his functioning senses instead; the palm of Noctis' hand is coarse from war but gentle in every way that he's known for a long time, tracing lines of heat over Ignis' wrist.

The ache that’d inhabited his chest for months had fully faded nearly two hours ago, with the raised lines that’d been unfurled across its surface in that time seemingly gone. In a fashion, he misses it; though he also knows that he no longer has any reason to.

‘… I suppose that the restructuring of the Citadel should now be a priority,’ he murmurs into Noctis’ hair. ‘All things considered.’

Noctis scoffs, moving to squeeze Ignis’ fingers; the touch is indescribably warm, in more ways than one. ‘I basically just came back from the dead, and you’re already thinking about work. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.’

‘Unfortunately, I do always have to remain on top of such things,’ Ignis says in reply, both regretful and patient. ‘As well as the uproar your return will inevitably stir up among the people, whenever you so choose to reveal yourself.’

‘Honestly, before that, I’ve got to tackle Prom and Gladio first.’ Noctis releases a quiet, yielding sigh. ‘They’re gonna lose their minds.’

There’s a wealth of other things that they have to tackle beyond that, really. Noctis’ reinstatement to the throne, should he decide to reclaim the broken crown as king; the continual reconstruction of the Crown City and of other regions without; the ongoing aid and relief of the common people, and the caring supervision of their welfare, until they can live their lives as they once did.

An array of endeavors that may take years – decades, even. But at least Ignis will walk tall at Noctis’ side through all of it.

Either way, such things can wait, seeing as they’ll be graced with rare undisturbed privacy tonight.

‘… You know, I’ll mull over all that tomorrow,’ says Noctis, in seamless continuation of that thought. ‘If it’s okay, I just want this, for now. I just – want _you_.’

‘I want you, too,’ Ignis breathes, an entire lifetime’s worth of emotion swelling in parallel with his lungs. ‘In all honesty, I always will.’

A smile unrolls against the column of his neck, then, as if to say: _me too_.

It’s easier for Ignis to not dwell on the funerary darkness of the last decade when he’s seated here on the dry pier with Noctis curled against his side, with Noctis’ arm snaked around his hip, with Noctis leaning in to press a soft kiss to the full of his mouth in a sweet, vulnerable offer for the beginning of much more. A gesture that Ignis reciprocates with equally heartfelt candor while Noctis twists lean fingers into his damp shirt, curiously tracing the newly unblemished plane of chest beneath.

The ache that was there is a different kind now, one that’s dusted with a hint of thrill and promise.

Dusk comes by with still much to be rebuilt, and even so, Ignis knows the sun will warm both their backs in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it to the end, thank you so much! I really hope you liked the fic. If you’re willing to spare a minute, please let me know what you think – being my first ever ignoct, I worked pretty hard on this fic and would absolutely love to hear any feedback you can give!
> 
> And if you’re one of the people who actually bought the zine, please let me know what you think of it too! Tbh I’m over the moon with how it turned out; again, it’s such an honor to have my work featured in there among such amazing writers and artists.
> 
> Also, do give [the wonderful JC](https://twitter.com/alktomycin) some love if you can! The art piece that they drew in collaboration with this fic was so gorgeous ♡ (additionally, please check out [the absolutely beautiful art piece](https://twitter.com/NiscuitG/status/1168691137642524673) that my good friend Niscuit drew for me, inspired by this fic. It's so stunning and emotional!).
> 
> Come chat to me about FFXV on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/silverxharmony/status/1158813912327868416) or [Tumblr](https://harmonization.tumblr.com/post/186820862666/) (just be warned though that I’m a multishipper – ignoct isn’t the only ship I like, although I sure do have a lot of fic ideas for them!! Would you like to see any more ignoct fics from me?). I’m still pretty neck-deep in the fandom right now, and would always love to make new friends :)


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